


Evocation

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [26]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Sexual Assault, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, M/M, Self-Hatred, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-08 11:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15929984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Things are still new. Uncertain. And Tommy isn't sure how Alfie feels about him, or this unnamed thing they have.After a fight with Alfie, he falls back into old habits.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to several requests from Tumblr. This first part mostly deals with this one: 
> 
> I love this AU, you capture both characters beautifully and have built their relationship in a real and believable way. I was hoping to request something where Tommy and Alfie were in Birmingham and the two of them have a spat that ends with Tommy going home alone. Tommy has a bad night and turns to his Opium and in its haze, goes to seek out Alfie without his gun. He ends up getting pulled into an alley by someone (your choice) who gets handsy, and Alfie saves him on his way to make up. Thanks!
> 
> It's set a month or so into the relationship, when things are quite new.

They could’ve chosen a nicer hotel to meet at. 

Tommy states this as he looks up at the dingy ceiling, studying a stain that from a certain angle could resemble a face. He takes a drag on his cigarette, sinking a little deeper into the mattress. It’s not very comfortable, lumpy and thin enough to give away the contours of the springs underneath, but the company somehow makes it the nicest bed he’s ever lain in. Though, having spent the past few hours getting fucked so good he quite literally saw stars is not… unrelated to the experience. Alfie puts every other man he’s had between his legs to shame. Not only in terms of effort, but in every single way.

Alfie’s been quiet for a while, now he suddenly speaks up.

“So, that bloke in the pub. Who was he?”

It takes a moment for the pieces to fall into place in Tommy’s mind. He doesn’t want to give Alfie the satisfaction of hearing him say it, but honestly, anything before the hours spent in this bed seems quite unimportant. But then he remembers that he indeed was at the Garrison when Alfie came to pick him up for their ‘business meeting’.

“Freddie?” he says, more to confirm this to himself than anything else.

“That’s his name?” Alfie runs his fingers through his beard, eyes fastened on the ceiling.

“He’s a friend,” Tommy says, turning to dispose some ash in the saucer on the nightstand. “Used to be, at least. We were in the war together, the two of us. In the tunnels.” He takes a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out. “He doesn’t exactly approve of the way I’m running the family business. Or my deteriorated values.”

He settles his head back on Alfie’s arm, shifting closer against his side. Alfie is silent for a bit.

“So, have you ever fucked? The two of you.” 

The blunt question actually succeeds in throwing Tommy off and he lets out a laugh

“What?” He props himself up on his elbow, needing to get a proper look at Alfie to see if he’s serious. Seems to be. For some reason, the question provokes Tommy.

“Maybe I have?” he says with a slight sneer. “What’s it to you?” _Fucking idiot, just tell the truth. Just say no._

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter,” Alfie says, indeed making it sound like it doesn’t. “Just curious, is all.” He chuckles dryly, still looking up at the ceiling, as if that stain is the most interesting thing in the entire world. “Seems like you’ve slept with half of Birmingham,” he adds as an afterthought, a wry smile crossing his lips. “And I sort of picked up on this vibe between you. A kind of…” He waves his hand around. “Hate-fuck deal. Figured that maybe you get lonely, right, in between our little meet ups.”

Something hot and angry twists in his stomach and Tommy sits up, distancing himself from Alfie.

“Maybe I am fucking other people,” he quips. “Would you care?” 

Alfie raises his eyebrows, giving him a sideways glance

“Not at all.” He shrugs, sounding absolutely indifferent. “Fuck whoever you like. Haven’t exactly discussed any terms, now, have we? It’s just fucking. And yeah, it’s bloody phenomenal, but it’s not like we’ve said it’s an exclusive thing.”

Tommy turns his back to Alfie to avoid that hardened look on his face. His stomach churns unpleasantly and he gets out of bed, overwhelmed by the urge to run. It’s one of the few feelings he always acts on.

“Where are you going?” Alfie asks without moving an inch.

“Home,” he spits. “Or maybe to fuck someone else.” _Since you don’t care, apparently._ Tommy searches for his clothes which are strewn haphazardly around the room, dropped carelessly in that initial moment of lust. Alfie stays quiet. Moving around, he feels how sore he is, as if his body telling him to lie back down. Curl up in Alfie’s warm embrace and stay there.

“Well, I’ll be here ‘till tomorrow, yeah? So, if you feel up for another round, just drop by,” Alfie says with a faint grin, stretching his limbs and putting both hands behind his head as he watches Tommy pull on the last of his clothing. “Though, be a doll and clean yourself up a bit first, eh? Don’t really feel like having fucking remnants of one of your other partners all over me.”

The words hit Tommy like a slap in the face. Alfie’s voice still holds that casual tone, but there’s something hard in his eyes. Tommy feels dirty, suddenly. 

He snatches his coat up from the floor and leaves the room without a word.

It’s dark outside, and a steady rainfall is blanketing the city. Fucking typical. Tommy begins his walk towards Watery Lane. And every step he takes reminds him of what he’s been doing the past few hours. Why the fuck didn’t he just tell Alfie the truth? Would’ve been so easy to just say no. But it’s like an automated response, ruining every good thing.

Fucking Alfie and his fucking bullshit.

The house is thankfully quiet when he gets home, all its occupants having retired for the night. Small mercies. He’s not in the mood for any curious questions right now.

Soaked through by the rain, he rummages through his drawers in search of dry underclothes. Though before he succeeds, he comes across something else instead.

He finds himself standing with a familiar metal box in his hands. Stares down at it. His fingers grip the edges almost convulsively. 

Then he shoves it back in the drawer. He hasn’t used the opium in weeks, and he’s not about to do it now, just because- _just because you’ve ruined everything?_

Shaking himself to get rid of the thoughts, he strips off his wet clothes, leaves them in a soggy pile and curls up under the blankets. But the box is still there within reach. With its promise of taking all this pain away.

The worry sits like a tight knot in his stomach.

Fuck why couldn’t he just tell the truth?

Is Alfie fucking other people? Maybe that’s why he doesn’t care if Tommy is. It feels like a blow to his stomach, the thought that he could just be one in a line of men that Alfie has warming his bed. Fuck, how could he have been this stupid… Of course Alfie’s got someone in London; he could have his pick of far less dysfunctional people. Must be absolutely exhausting, spending time with Tommy… Alfie just gives, and Tommy just takes. But it’s like he can’t help it. Like he’s got this hole in his chest, and no matter how much affection Alfie pours into it, it’s never enough to fill it…

Since when did he become this pathetic?

He curls up a bit tighter, squeezes his eyes shut. But the thoughts won’t stop. _He’s going to leave you. You’re going to be alone again…_

Because he knows…

When having other options, no one would choose him.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore.

His hands move on their own accord, the movements ingrained in his backbone by now. He doesn’t have to think. And still his mind screams no the entire way.

He draws the smoke deep into his lungs. Hoping it’ll fill his chest completely, leave no room for all the other feelings raging in it.

The hit comes instantly. After so long without it, his mind is wide open to the drug, and the smoke fills him like a soothing fog, numbing all the sharp-edged worries that are cutting into his insides. Everything becomes soft, distant… the bad thoughts fade to a hum.

He inhales another lungful of smoke. And another.

His limbs grow heavy and he falls back onto the mattress.

The bed still feels cold. Lonely.

Blinking up at the ceiling, he thinks of Alfie in that hotel bed. 

He wants to be with Alfie. That’s all he wants. Maybe if he tells Alfie the truth -tells him he’s not fucking anyone else, doesn’t _want_ to fuck anyone else- Alfie will choose him. Alfie is kind, underneath that rough exterior. Maybe if Tommy is really sweet -he can pretend, knows how to tilt his head and how to smile to make it seem like he isn’t just an empty shell- and maybe if he’s sweet enough Alfie will choose him.

The opium has removed his usual resolve to never be the first to reach out. The fear of rejection.

He wants to be with Alfie. So, he’s going to Alfie.

The floor rocks under him. Like a ship in a storm. Clothes… he needs clothes. His trousers are wet from the rain, but that doesn’t matter.

It’s stopped raining, and the air is full of fog. Just like his head. The dim streetlights are few and far between, yellow pools of light in the darkness. One after the other, he makes his way through them. Down the street. It’s not far. Alfie will put him back on the ground again. The ground… He needs to look down at the ground, make sure he sets his feet right. The cobbled street moves in waves and swirls under his bare feet. Yeah, forgot his boots didn’t he? Doesn’t really matter. He can’t feel his feet.

“Shelby? Thomas Shelby?”

The name floats through the air. It’s his name.

A dark figure approaches him, breaking out of the shadows. “Oi, I’m fucking talking to you.” The hand around his arm is strong. Shakes him. A pungent stench of alcohol seeps from every pore of the man. Tommy doesn’t recognize the face.

“Too high up in the world now to answer to normal folks, are you?” The man is angry. Probably with good reason, but Tommy can’t figure out what it may be.

He wants to go to Alfie.

He’s pulled away from the pool of light, into an alley shrouded in darkness. He doesn’t like the dark. And he tries twisting his arm out of the man’s grip. It’s when he feels how horrifyingly weak he is that some small fraction of his mind still capable of thought tells him: you’ve taken too much.

But it’s too late to do anything about it now.

“You don’t even know who I am, do you?” The man slurs. “I’m fucking ruined because of you. But to you I’m just some nameless fucking face-“ Face… his face is blurred at the edges. Tommy doesn’t know this man, he’s certain of that. But the man seems to know him. “Ever think about that? That every time one of your fucking horses lose-“ What does it matter? Who the fuck cares about the races? Tommy needs to go and see Alfie. The man goes on, but Tommy can’t listen. Can’t understand. His knees are so weak. He clings to the wall for support. 

Fuck, he’s about to pass out

The man is shoving him and Tommy nearly loses his footing.

“Got nothing to say for yourself?” he sneers. “Maybe you’re not as cocky when you’re all alone. Without your fucking guard dogs-”

He makes a noise. A hum. If he agrees with this man, he’ll let him go.

The fist connecting with his cheek makes some of the fog disappear, and he fights back, acting purely on instinct. But his blows are aimless and without strength. And the man is strong. Shakes and pushes him. Tommy feels helpless. Like a broken doll, held together by flimsy strips of fabric. Cracks and missing pieces everywhere…

The rough bricks scrape against his cheek and his arms are twisted behind his back.

 

He can’t move. The man’s spiteful words fill his head, distant, muffled. Impossible to make sense of.

“-should teach you a lesson- Fuck you like you fucked me, eh?” Breath full of whiskey right next to his ear. “That ought to teach you- make you crawl in the dirt where you belong. You’ll see- I’ll fucking wreck you-“

A hand is suddenly tugging clumsily at the waistband of his trousers.

“No,” Tommy chokes the word out together with the smoke.

 _Just give up. Just let it happen_ … He struggles uselessly, weak as a fucking kitten.

He’s so tired. Doesn’t want to fight. Sleep. He wants to sleep.

These streets have already taken everything else from him. Might as well take this too.

No, no, this isn’t happening. Not this too.

Despite everything, he keeps fighting against the hands.

There’s a loud crack. Maybe it’s the sound of his own skull breaking? Tommy can’t feel anything. But the body pressing against him disappears and his knees buckle.

The ground wet and slick with mud, cold under his ribcage. He’ll stay here.

Sleep. He wants to sleep.

He watches the scene play out from under heavy eyelids. Two dark figures are struggling, one of them clearly gaining the upper hand. It’s over within moments. Soon, the other is unmoving on the ground.

The larger figure crouches down in front of Tommy, rings glimmering in the streetlight as he reaches out to grab his shoulder.

“Tommy? Fuckin’ hell, can’t leave you alone for a fucking second, eh?”

Alfie.

“Come here. Up you go. Can’t be lying around out here.” He’s gripped by strong hands again, pulled to his feet. Alfie holds him upright. Tommy’s legs won’t carry him. “There we are. You okay? Oi, Tommy, look at me.”

Alfie’s face is right close to Tommy’s, the worried creases on his forehead visible even in the dark. Fuck, Alfie can’t see him like this… It’s the only clear thought in his mind.

He’ll never pick Tommy over anyone else now.

“Let me go.” Is it him saying the words? Must be. Alfie’s mouth isn’t moving. The realisation washes over his features. He knows. Tommy closes his eyes again. Can’t find another way to escape.

“Bloody idiot. Should’ve fucking guessed,” Alfie mutters. “And what are you doing out on the fucking street in this state? High as a goddamn kite… Should at least have the sense to stay indoors when you’re like this-“

Tommy squeezes his eyes tightly shut, covers his ears with shaking hands. Doesn’t want to hear…

“Fuck, stop that, give it here- Let’s get you back to the hotel.“ His arm is slung over Alfie’s shoulders as Alfie begins walking. Steady. Solid and real, unaffected by the moving ground.

“No, home,” Tommy mutters and squirms, resisting as Alfie tries dragging him out on the street. “Want… to go home.”

To the familiar sounds of Arthur muttering in his sleep, Polly’s steps in the staircase as she goes down to make breakfast- Safe, he just wants to feel safe. _You’re safe with Alfie._ No, Alfie doesn’t want him anymore-

He’s on the ground again, back leaned against the wall. He buries his face against his knees. Doesn’t want to see Alfie.

“Didn’t- I didn’t want to,” he mumbles. “Wasn’t like that… ‘m not fucking anyone else. I tried to…” His jaw is so heavy, it makes it difficult to speak. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Alfie…

Alfie crouches down in front of him. Warm hands cup his face.

“Fuckin’ell, Tommy… Of course not. Could see that a fucking mile away- wouldn’t have bashed him over the head otherwise. Hey, eyes on me, love-”

“ ‘m not fucking anyone else,” Tommy repeats.

Alfie just nods. “Right. We’re going back to the hotel now, yeah? Closer than your house. And it’s not full of family members that may shoot me if I show up with you in this state.”

Alfie hoists him up again. First to his feet. And then Tommy is floating completely, head dropping heavily against Alfie’s shoulder as he carries him.

He slips in and out of darkness, aware only for short moments of his surroundings. Being laid on the floor… soothing hands washing his face… pulling his clothes off- He resists, something deep and primal reminding him of that alley-

“Shh, it’s okay, love, it‘s just me, alright?” Alfie… he stops fighting.

He’s picked up again. Carried. And then laid to rest on something soft.

 When he’s pulled into the familiar embrace, surrounded by warmth finally, he drifts fully into darkness.

…

He wakes up soaked in cold sweat.

It feels like his muscles are twisting under his skin, tightening like ropes around all his bones. His mind scrambles to put together a picture of what happened last night, and slowly, the memories connect into a full timeline. But he can’t recall how he ended up in a bed.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, the lights in the room are too bright.

Alfie is next to him on the bed, fully clothed and reading a book. First time Tommy’s seen him wear the glasses outside of the office. They suit him.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says gruffly and looks at Tommy over the edge of those glasses. “Almost had me thinking you’d gone ahead and died on me. Would’ve put me in some trouble, trying to dispose of your fucking body. Reckon you can’t lug around Tommy Shelby in these parts without some suspicious glances.”

Tommy can’t answer. Alfie closes the book and pushes the glasses up on his forehead.

“Suppose we better get this out of the way then,” he says with an air of weariness. “How long have you been using that shit?”

Tommy closes his eyes. He’s so tired of considering all of his words, turning them every which way and trying to foresee the possible outcome before he says them. So for once, he just tells the truth. Or at least part of it.

“Since the war. Not all the time. Just… It helps me sleep.”

Alfie nods slowly, scratching his beard.

“See, here’s the thing, Thomas,” he begins. “This has to stop, right, because I don’t fancy doing business with a fucking junkie. Tend to make some shitty decisions, yeah? Exhibit A, your little midnight stroll yesterday. Fuck knows how that could’ve ended. So, if this deal’s gonna stand, you’ll have to give it up. Alright?”

Business.

Tommy’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. Angry. He should get angry. But he doesn’t have it in him.

Fighting his protesting body, he sits up and gets out of bed. Fuck, where are all his clothes? His trousers hang over a chair, somehow in pristine condition despite his blurred memories of lying in a puddle of mud in them. He dresses himself quickly –not much clothing to put on, he seems to have left everything but his undershirt and trousers behind- carefully avoiding to look at Alfie, who remains silent on the bed.

When he reaches for the door handle, Alfie sighs.

“Door’s locked. Key on that dresser over there.”

Tommy’s heart is beating so fast it feels more like vibrations in his chest. The lock is jammed, and despite twisting the key it won’t open. The vibrations from his heart travel out into his arms, making his hands shake.

The key bounces off the wall and slides into some dark corner when he tosses it across the room. Alfie looks up from his book again.

Tommy fixes an icy stare on him, folds both arms across his ribs.

“Why do you fucking care?” he spits. “What I do in my own fucking time has nothing to do with- fuck, it doesn’t affect the business, alright?” He can’t even form a coherent argument. His cheeks are burning.

Heaving another sigh, Alfie leans back against the bedframe and fastens his gaze on the ceiling, contemplating something.  

“Fine. Not just about the business, is it? Of course it’s not,” he finally says. “You get that, don’t you?”

Tommy is silent, shrinking back against the door. An expectant look is directed at him, and when he receives no answer, Alfie shakes his head. 

“Fucking hell, you’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” he grumbles. “Here it goes then: I like you, alright?” He fixes his gaze on Tommy. “Will probably only bring me fucking pain and misery, seeing as you’re hell bent on getting yourself killed…” Getting out of the bed, he walks up to Tommy, eyes still oddly soft. Tommy ducks his head to avoid them, but Alfie’s hands cradle his face and gently coaxes him to look up.

“Fuck, I’m in way over my head with this fucking thing,” he states. “But I like you, alright, Thomas Shelby. And yeah, I care about you. Not only are you a brilliant fuck, but you’re pretty extraordinary company too. And I’d like to keep you alive, yeah?”

Taking Alfie’s hands, Tommy pulls them away from his face. He holds them, still. But he needs to look away. To be able to breathe

Because hearing Alfie say that- it thaws something inside of him. If Alfie can say that, even after yesterday’s display… Hell, _now_ , when Tommy is standing here soaked in cold sweat, shivering and no doubt looking like absolute shit… Maybe that’s some sort of proof.

Alfie clears his throat. 

“See, that’s why I got all… fuck, I don’t know, all fucked in the head yesterday. Got a bit jealous.” He scratches the back of his head. “I ain’t used to that. And I was actually on my way to fucking wake you up and tell you that when- Yeah, when I passed that alley. Lucky that I did, too…” He pauses, giving Tommy a onceover. “Go on, sit down, you look a right mess…”

Tommy lets himself be led back to the bed, sinks down on the lumpy mattress and leans against the pillows that Alfie stacks behind his back. He closes his eyes.

“I’m not fucking anyone else.” He vaguely remembers saying the words yesterday. “Don’t know… I don’t know why I didn’t say so. I just- I don’t fucking know.”

Alfie seats himself next to Tommy and rests an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close.

“Well, I’m not fucking anyone else either.” He offers up a dry laugh. “Not since that day you walked into my office and bled all over my desk. Quite taken with you, ain’t I? So I don’t suppose I’d like to.”

Despite the state of his body –aching and trembling as if raged by a high fever, Tommy still finds himself smiling. He leans into the embrace, trying to make his tense muscles relax.

“Me neither,” he admits. “And, fuck since we’re already behaving like fucking school boys… I might just _like_ you too.”

Alfie smiles, that bright, warm smile that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle.

“So…. we’re officially making this an exclusive thing then?” Alfie absolutely beams and Tommy tilts his head upwards to kiss him. Seems to be the only way to shut him up.

“Guess so.”

They definitely could’ve picked a better time for these confessions and revelations. Tommy would’ve preferred to spend the next hours doing something besides shivering under a blanket and feeling like utter shit, knowing it’ll only go downhill from here. Alfie gets them breakfast that Tommy forces himself to eat, despite knowing he’ll see the whole thing in reverse in a few hours. But he doesn’t want Alfie to worry.

In the early hours of the afternoon, the fever is creeping into his bones, and that’s when he decides he needs to get home. Lock himself in a room before it gets worse. Alfie scoffs in disapproval of this idea, following as Tommy climbs out of bed to watch him with a sceptical frown and crossed arms. 

“You’re about to go through absolute hell, and you want me to just fuck off?”

Tommy stands on the dingy carpet, hand already on the door handle. “Alfie I- I don’t want you to see me like this. It’s not-” _It’s not your job to save me. Don’t need saving_. “Not fucking necessary for you to watch me lie under a blanket and be miserable.”

If Alfie sees him like that, Tommy won’t be able to ever look him in the eye again. It’s hard enough, what he witnessed yesterday. That pathetic lack of self-control. Tommy can’t let him see this too. It’s too much.

“So, what’s the plan, then?” Alfie grunts. “Lock yourself in your room and vomit your guts out all by yourself?”

“It won’t be that bad,” Tommy lies. “I haven’t used in a while. Shouldn’t be…” He’s suddenly so fucking tired, unable to come up with any convincing arguments. So he just gives Alfie a weary look. “Please, Alfie.”

Alfie’s features soften. “At least let me drive you home. Can’t be walking around like that.” He indicates towards Tommy’s bare feet. “People will think you’ve finally snapped.”

Showing up on the streets wearing nothing but an undershirt and trousers is not something Tommy wants to add to his already extensive list of fuck ups in the latest twenty-four hours, so he nods. Even accepts Alfie’s coat when it’s offered to him. But only because he’s freezing.

When Alfie pulls up by the house on Watery Lane, he shrugs out of it again, suddenly reluctant to leave both that and Alfie behind.

Alfie seems to be equally reluctant to leave.    

“You absolutely sure about this, then?” he asks, shoulders slumping in dejection when Tommy nods. “You know that thing about in sickness and in health, yeah? Not just something they say ‘cause it sounds pretty.”

“We’re not married,” Tommy scoffs.

“Not yet perhaps,” Alfie smirks. “I’ll make an honourable man out of you yet, love, don’t you worry. Just have to ask that aunt of yours for her blessing first. Not that you’ve got much virtue to protect. Think I saw to that long ago.”

Tommy just rolls his eyes and climbs out of the car, focusing on keeping his legs under control. They feel dangerously weak. And he shudders when his bare feet touch the cold ground.

Alfie follows suit.

“Just do me a favour, alright?” he says. “Call me when you’re back on your feet. Won’t be getting much done if I’m just wandering around thinking about this all week.”

Tommy quirks an eyebrow. “You think of me often then, Mister Solomons?”

“All the time,” Alfie says without a hint of humour, shifting a little closer, as close as he dares to out in the open. Bejewelled fingers grace over Tommy’s cheeks softly. So quick and light it could’ve been his imagination. An almost troubled look crosses Alfie’s face and he lets out a long breath, “All the fucking time.”

Right then, Tommy wishes the world would just stop for one moment. Look away. Give him one moment to lean in and kiss Alfie.

But the world doesn’t stop. People keep passing by in the street, looking out their windows... reminding him that it’s not just them here.

Is that really so much to ask for? Just one fucking moment of the world being… different.

Judging by the look on Alfie’s face, he wishes for the same thing.

Tommy climbs the steps to the house, turning one last time to see Alfie get back in the car, shooting him a lopsided grin and winking. Then, the car is disappearing down the street.

He goes inside.

Ada meets him in the hallway, passing by on her way to the kitchen. He gives her a half-hearted lie about being sick.

“Just need to rest a day or two,” he says, attempting to meet her scrutinizing gaze.

Ada looks between his bare feet and bruised cheek, and he knows she’s not buying it. 

“I won’t pester you,” she says, voice oddly mild. “But I want you to know that you can trust me, Tommy. With absolutely anything.”

“It’s nothing.” Tommy sets for the stairs, halting when Ada grabs his arm. She steps closer, lowering her voice, eyes darting both ways to make sure no one is within earshot.

“Did a man do this to you?”

Tommy chuckles humourlessly, “Always a man, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean, did someone-“ she bites her lip, voice lowering to a whisper. “Please just give me one honest answer here, and I’ll let it go, I swear.” She pins him with her eyes. “Are you seeing someone who’s… not treating you well?”

Tommy hushes her, suddenly feeling like the walls have turned into paper and that everyone in the house can hear their conversation.

“This is not something you and I talk about. Especially not in this fucking house.”

Ada’s gaze doesn’t falter and Tommy is so exhausted that he can’t come up with a convincing story.

“No,” he simply says. “It’s not like that.”

Ada lets go of his arm. “Fine. But I’m here. If you ever… need to talk.”

Tommy goes upstairs. Some small part of him is grateful, strangely enough… that there’s someone who knows enough to ask.

...

For two days, he’s forced to stay in bed. No determination is strong enough to keep him upright. He locks the door, ignores the concerned questions, and just suffers through it.

When it’s over, the worst of it, he takes the box to the cut. Opens it and studies the content. Tries to think of Alfie. _You don’t need this shit now… you’ve got Alfie. You’re not alone anymore…_

He drops the pipe down into the black water. The box that held it follows. Only the opium itself remains, safely held inside the small silvery box. He opens that too. Stares down at the black substance.

A tiny voice tells him that it’s only a matter of time… Sooner or later, Alfie will grow tired of him. He might think he’s seen the worst, but he’s got no idea, has he? He’ll see. _Sooner or later, he’ll see._

Tommy closes the box again. And lets it slip back into his coat pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Tommy hides it, the opium. Decides that as long as Alfie wants him, he’ll never touch it again.

And strangely enough, even though he fucks up more than he’d like over the following months, Alfie still wants him. Even stranger is that despite his reluctance, his arguably _unhealthy coping mechanisms_ as Alfie calls them, are slowly beginning to disappear. Alfie insists that they talk about it, the war. Starts digging in his head. Asks questions. Doesn’t let him just sneak off to wander any dark streets in aimless search of distraction, or spend the night with a whiskey bottle on the sofa. It leads to fights, his claustrophobia flaring up again, more nightmares… But with Alfie there, he somehow gets through it. 

And the box remains where he left it, untouched.

Eventually, he’s forgotten where it is.

…

Tommy returns home to his ancestral home to find Alfie packing. Apparently, London can’t wait any longer. He tries to not give away how uneasy the thought of being left alone makes him. Though he still lets Alfie know that he’s not entirely happy about this, lighting a cigarette to distract himself as he states this fact. 

“Can’t just set up shop here permanently, love,” Alfie sighs. “Need me back at the bakery, see, or there might not be one when I decide to show up.”

“Well, I can’t go anywhere, not right now.” Tommy sucks down a lungful of smoke and leans against the dresser, watching Alfie try to fit a pair of boots into a far too small compartment of the suitcase

Abandoning his endeavour, Alfie crosses his arms over his chest and turns to face him. “How long ‘till you can come to London, then?”

Tommy shrugs, not feeling particularly cooperative at the moment.

“For fucks sake, don’t give me that,” Alfie groans. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“Fine. A week. I could get out of here next Friday. Maybe.” Tommy looks out the window and tries to ignore the feeling of abandonment.  

Alfie suddenly chuckles and when Tommy reluctantly turns back to him, he’s smiling. “Just look at the two of us, eh? Arguing just to avoid a few days apart. Isn’t that something…”

As usual, Alfie’s smile makes Tommy soften too. “Yeah. It’s… something alright. ”

It’s snuck up on them this… co-dependency. Ever since his family found out, and the change allowed for them to spend the nights in his home rather than a dingy hotel, Alfie’s presence has become a frequent thing. For days at a time. Sometimes an entire week. And when they’re not in Birmingham, they’re in London. Together more often than not.

Alfie comes closer, wraps both arms loosely around his waist. “Will you be okay? Know we’ve hit a bit of a rough patch with the nightmares. Bet the fucking stress isn’t helping either, but that’s another discussion.”  

The smile fades from Tommy’s lips and he lowers his gaze to Alfie’s chest. Fixes his eyes on one of the shirt buttons.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll call,” Alfie promises, leaning his forehead against Tommy’s. ”Every night.”

“It’ll drive everyone else insane.”

“Well, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Alfie gives him a soft kiss. “You’re lucky you’re so fucking adorable when you pout, or I might’ve had something to say about this attitude of yours.”

Tommy mutters that he absolutely does not pout and sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth for good measure. Chuckling, Alfie returns to his packing.

Tommy lights another cigarette.

It’s just a week.

…

The tiny bed somehow feels entirely to big that night. And perhaps it’s that, or Alfie’s absence… Or maybe his mind is just set on this going to hell. Either way, Tommy can’t fall asleep. A night isn’t long. Shouldn’t be such a frightening thing; it’s just a few hours of darkness. But those hours feel unbearably long. And with every passing minute, the unease just grows. It’s that hole in his chest opening up, letting out something dark that claws at his insides…

He closes his eyes. Breathes. It does little to help.

 

Unable to cope with the crawling restlessness, he gives up on sleep and opts for a walk instead. Alfie doesn’t like those, the late night walks. But fuck him, he’s not here, is he?

He opens his closet door with a bit more force than necessary to reach for his trousers on one of the hangers. A suitcase tips over and spills its content on the floor.

The small metal box slides out, hitting the threshold to the closet with a quiet little thud. Tommy blinks and stares down at it.

The weight feels familiar in his hand when he picks it up and smooths his thumb over the surface of the lid. In the back of his throat, his heart thuds a bit harder. Then he shoves it back into the suitcase, closes it and pushes it into the farthest corner of the closet.

It’s not until he’s closed the door that he realises his hands are shaking.

Any thoughts of walking swept far from his mind, he returns to the bed to hide under the covers. Like a child hiding from the monsters under the bed.

_Why didn’t you throw it out?_

The sheets still smell like Alfie and he curls up on the half of the rather tiny bed where he usually sleeps. It’s not really a half. Alfie rather takes up two thirds. But Tommy definitely doesn’t mind the close quarters when they’re sleeping, always feeling the most at peace when he’s tucked safely against Alfie’s side. Fuck, thinking about Alfie is definitely not helping… Only makes it painfully obvious that he isn’t here.

_You could use it, just tonight. Just when Alfie isn’t here…_

His heart his beating too fast in his chest, and no matter how he tries to control his breaths, it won’t slow down. Hammers against his ribcage. The back of his throat.

There’s nothing to be afraid of here, so why does it feel like he’s about to fucking die?

He lies awake. Eyes closed, just to avoid facing the darkness.

Eventually the shovels begin scraping against the wall. He cowers under his arms, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. They scrape, scrape away at the wall.

Time blurs easily in the dark. Turns into yet another one of all those lonely nights spent tossing and turning in this bed. There are so many of them…

His mind fills with the thoughts of thick smoke, promising to take all of this away. Slow his heartbeat. Soothe all the sharp edges. Make everything safe, if only for a moment… He wouldn’t have to fight his own head, it would finally calm down. His heart wouldn’t beat so fast. He’d fall asleep…

It’s because he knows that it’s there now. Knows there’s an option to the feeling that’s clawing at him. He focuses on taking one breath at a time. Keeps his eyes closed.  

When he finally falls asleep, his dreams are full of shovels. Digging through something black and sticky that isn’t just damp earth.

He moves through the next day in a daze.

Alfie calls in the late hours of the evening. He sounds happy.

“How’s your day been then, love?”

He tells him in as few words as possible. Mostly, he just wants to hear Alfie talk, which he of course is more than happy to do. And Tommy listens. Closes his eyes and lets his words anchor him.

“Well, time to get some sleep, I’d think,” Alfie says after a while. Not long enough. “A day tomorrow, innit?” Tommy hums.

They say their goodbyes.

Tommy doesn’t understand how his room can feel so different without Alfie in it. He’s just spoken to him. Can even replay his exact words in his mind, soothing, comforting, and still it’s not enough.

He lies there in the dark, tries to erase the unwelcomed thoughts –lungs full of smoke, head full of nothing- by replacing them with others. Tries to think of Alfie’s body right close to his… Being held as Alfie kisses him… Strong hands and hot breath against his skin…  But the unease won’t relent for anything.

_Just one time… You’ve quit before, can do it again. Just while Alfie isn’t here, so you can sleep._

Midnight finds him seated with the metal box in his hands.

He can’t even recall how he ended up there _._

_Just a little. Just to take the edge off. You know that you need it- that’s why you didn’t throw it away._

His hands move as if by their own volition. Without the pipe, swallowing it directly is the only option, which somehow makes it easier -a moment of bitterness on his tongue and then it’s gone.

_What the fuck have you done?_

The panic instantly following is enough to make him curl inwards on himself, hands covering his face as he tries to just breathe through it… In and out Alfie has taught him how to- Alfie- Alfie will be so fucking disappointed- _You’re such a failure- so pathetic, can’t even handle a few days on your own without_ — Something wet is trailing down his cheeks. Not tears, not tears he’d never cry about such a pathetic thing… _How will you ever face him again, didn’t you promise?_ His own mind is screaming at him-

Then the relief finally washes over him, surging through his blood, up in his head and soothing all the worries.

He falls backwards down onto the bed, eyes unseeing and body limp as it’s dragged down into the mattress, sinking through it, until he’s engulfed in a soft nothingness… Nothing matters…. Everything’s okay…. His heartbeat slows to a soothing hum… _See, see how easy it was, see how good you feel now?_

He closes his eyes.

...

“You look like shit,” John points out the next morning, earning a sharp elbow in the side from Ada. Tommy doesn’t even dignify this with an answer. And hopes the guilt isn’t as clear on his face as it is in the pit of his stomach.

Alfie calls dutifully the same evening.

Right then, Tommy is glad he can’t see him, feeling the shame burn his cheeks. 

When the darkest hours of the night come, he’s sitting with the box in his hands again. He doesn’t hesitate this time. The guilt is twisting his stomach, hard enough to make him feel nauseous. He can’t- can’t feel like that… Just one more time. Tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll throw it out. And in a few days he can go to London, and be everything Alfie deserves…

But he doesn’t throw it out the day after.

Because whatever dark hole opened up in his chest, it only grows. Every night, it chips away a little at him, draining his resolves completely. And every night, he fills his mouth with the sticky black substance. Just to survive.

...

Then, in the blink of an eye and yet an eternity later, over a week has passed. Tommy almost considers not going to London. Alfie will see straight through him. He’ll know. He’ll know, and he’ll leave Tommy, because he doesn’t want a pathetic junkie-

“Don’t give me that shit,” Polly scoffs when he mutters something about there still being too much work to do, in response to her question of when he’ll be leaving. “You’re going, and that’s final. Been looking like a kicked puppy all week. We’ll sort things out here.”

“Yeah, go and get laid,” John calls from the other room. “You definitely need some- ow! Arthur, sod off!”

He doesn’t even have to pack a suitcase, because half of his possessions are apparently in London.

He feels it already during the drive, the demand clawing at the pit of his stomach, and steels himself to ignore it. It’s enough now. He’ll never let Alfie see him like that again. Never. He’s got enough self control to stay away from it…

But in his pocket, he feels the weight of the box.

Alfie meets him in the door, absolutely beaming, and not only pulls him into his arms, but hoists him up until Tommy’s legs are hitched around his waist. It makes Tommy laugh as he leans down and kisses him.

“God, I’ve missed you.” Alfie smiles and nudges Tommy’s nose with his own in a fond gesture. “Let’s try not to make a habit of this, alright?”

Tommy can only nod.

Alfie sets him back on his feet, still smiling. His hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb running along his cheekbone. The crease on his forehead makes Tommy lower his gaze.

“Been a rough week, love?”

“Had some trouble sleeping,” he says. It’s the only lie Alfie might buy. Alfie nods slowly.

“I shouldn’t have left you with that. Wish you’d told me.”

Tommy shakes his head and forces a smile. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here now.” 

Alfie kisses him again. “Indeed you are, love.”

Later that night, after making up for lost time in the bedroom, Tommy is lying tucked against Alfie’s side as he’s reading. And the thoughts that have been far from his mind, silenced by the sound of Alfie moaning his name, start whirling in his head again.

_You need it. You know you do. Only took one fucking night for you to choose it over Alfie. Of course you-_

He tries to shove them to the back of his mind.

He used to love this; falling asleep in Alfie’s arms while he’s reading something. There’s something so safe about knowing for certain that Alfie’s awake, and not just to make sure that Tommy falls asleep. But tonight, nothing helps. And he begins to realise that he’s ruined everything. Just a week ago, he would’ve felt absolutely calm, and now all he thinks of is the box lying in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

How is he going to explain the withdrawal?

Right at that moment, he loathes himself so much that he almost can’t bear it.

“Everything alright, love?”

Tommy hums, keeping his eyes closed.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.” Pause. A hand stroking his back. He can picture Alfie frowning. “But… sweetheart, you’re shaking.” The worry is palpable in his voice now and Tommy tenses up, trying to control the tremors.

Eyes still closed. Alfie will see…

“I’m just cold.”

“Seems odd. Thought we’d gotten your blood pumping by now,” Alfie muses and he can feel his eyes on him. The hand moves to cradle his forehead. “Maybe you’re getting sick? Look a bit pale. Really saying something that, what with you being just shy of translucent on a good day.”

“No, no I’m fine,” Tommy mutters and keeps his eyes closed. Forcing himself to breathe evenly.

For a moment, Alfie seems to be contemplating his answer.

Then he dislodges himself from Tommy’s arms and climbs out of bed. Soon, a second blanket is laid over him. And the gesture makes his heart clench so painfully that he has to bite the inside of his cheek.

_God, you don’t deserve him._

“There we go, should help a little, that.” Alfie returns to his spot next to Tommy, wrapping him up in an even tighter embrace. “I’ll get us a thicker duvet. Can’t have you freezing like this.” He goes back to his book, while Tommy just focuses on not suffocating.

Can Alfie feel how fast his heart is beating? He tries listening to Alfie’s heartbeat instead, the steady, even sound thumping softly under his ear.

His own feels as if it’s about to break through his ribcage.

The arm around him eventually grows heavier, the grip loosening.

He opens his eyes a little to see that Alfie has fallen asleep; book lying splayed across his chest, and glasses tilting a bit on his nose. Tommy carefully takes them off and places them on the bedside table together with the book, before laying back down.

The hole in his chest won’t close. Like a gaping wound, raw and sore, it sits there. Why is he feeling like this now?  Alfie is here. He’s here, right next to Tommy, sleeping peacefully. But Tommy’ can’t breathe. His ribcage is so heavy that it caves inwards on his lungs. Smoke fills them. Smoke and dirt. Clogging the airways and making each breath rattle in his chest. He’s under water, under ground…

 He sits up, elbows resting on his knees as he cradles his head between his hands and tries to breathe through the panic. It’s clawing at his insides, making his heart beat frantically. If he wakes Alfie up, he’ll have to explain… tell him what he did. Alfie will be so disappointed. It’s as if nothing has changed at all. He’s just the same he was… and nothing will ever change and- and-

He quietly slips out of bed.

It’s been a while since he spent the night seated on the sofa, but that’s where he ends up. Staring down at the box.

Clutching it so hard his hands begin to shake again.

There’s no way out of this. For all his planning and fucking scheming, he can’t, can’t fix this…

He’s not sure how long he sits there.

“Tommy…”

His head snaps up. Alfie is standing in the doorway, watching him with a sad eyes.

And he’s suddenly out of lies.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, clutching the box until the edges dig into his fingers.

The couch dips as Alfie sits down next to him. His hands close around Tommy’s and his grip loosens ever so slightly. He lets Alfie take the box into his hands, opening it to study the content for a moment. Tommy can’t bear to look at him. He just fastens his gaze on the floor and braces himself for the harsh words. He may have thought them all about himself already, but knowing he’ll have to hear them from Alfie… 

“How long has this been going on?”

“Just a week,” Tommy whispers. He wishes he could crawl out of his own skin. Tears of shame prickle his eyes. Fuck, he can’t do this… “I’ll- I’ll get out of your hair- Just need to get dressed-“ 

Alfie grasps his hand when he stands to leave, but Tommy pulls himself loose.

He moves towards the door, can’t look at Alfie, can’t stay there, can’t-

“Tommy, sweetheart, wait…” Alfie stands up and walks around him, hands on his shoulders. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “Tommy, please look at me.” A hand cups his cheek gently. But he can’t- Can’t face the disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Alfie mutters. “Fucking hell, I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me about this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy grits out, fighting to keep the tears at bay. Blinking rapidly and keeping his gaze sternly on the floor. “Not your fault that I’m- a fucking junkie who can’t-“ He has to cut himself off to swallow, attempting again to walk past Alfie. But he’s held back.

“Nah, none of that love, I should’ve asked, see. After that first thing. Probably several times, too. Not just expect you to quit and never mention it again.”

“I did quit,” Tommy says and roughly wipes a tear away. “I did- I don’t know how this happened. I just found it and-” The tears just keep coming, silent as they trail hotly down his cheeks.

Alife leads him back to the sofa and sits him down, his arm coming to rest around his shoulders, hand resting firmly on his upper arm to soothe the shaking limb. All his muscles are wound so tight they’re about to snap and Tommy grits his teeth. Waits. For what, he’s not sure. Alfie keeps rubbing his arm. Heaves a sigh.

“See, after the war right, when I just came back. I was all-“ he says and gestures with his free hand, twiddling the fingers by his temple. “You know? So fucking angry. All the time. Like something was boiling under my fucking skin.” Tommy’s shoulders sag a little. “And one time, there was this lad in the street, can’t have been more than fucking… eighteen or something. And I just fucking snapped. For no discernible fucking reason… or yeah, maybe I though he looked at me strange, who knows. Beat him halfway to death before someone stopped me.”

There’s a contemplative pause.

Tommy head rests in the juncture between Alfie’s shoulder and his chest. Familiar spot. Safe.

“And that’s when I realised I needed to fucking start- I don’t know, mend myself alright,” Alfie continues. “We survived, didn’t we? Can’t wander around and be half dead then. Fucking waste, innit?” His fingers begin carding through Tommy’s hair. “And sure it was hard. Won’t lie about that. But it got better, didn’t it? So whenever I felt that, right, the crawling sort of feeling, I’d list all the street names in Camden I could remember. Or the… ingredients to me mum’s challah. Just to get my mind working again.”

Tommy cradles his hands close to his body. Cold. Alfie takes one of them and starts rubbing it gently.

“Did it work?”

“Sure thing. Better than one’d think. For such a stupid bloody idea. Who would’ve thought, eh? Just about getting your mind working in a different direction. And yeah, still get myself worked into a state sometimes. But it’s better.”  

Tommy buries his face in Alfie’s chest. Listens to his heartbeat again.

“That’s why this is scary alright,” Alfie gestures between them. “You know? I get worried and then I get angry, and sometimes I’m afraid I’ll end up hurting you. Which is just- fuck, it’s difficult alright. Like there’s bloody insects crawling all over my brain.”

The room falls silent again.

Tommy squeezes Alfie’s hand tightly. He’s not alone. Alfie knows. Understands. And he can breathe a little easier again.

Alfie tucks a hand under his chin and he finally gives in and meets his gaze. There’s no resentment there. No disappointment. A bit of sadness, perhaps. And something warm that always seem to be there when he looks at Tommy.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, slumping forward and resting his forehead against Alfie’s. Closes his eyes.

“Not a fucking thing to be sorry about, love.”  

They sit in silence for a while. Until Alfie tells him they’re going to bed again, _tells him_ , not asks. And for once, Tommy does as he’s told.

Alfie reads to him, staying awake with the help of quite a few cups of tea. Tommy rests his head on his lap. And Alfie strokes his hair in between the flips of pages.

“Feels like I’m petting a frightened rabbit,” Alfie muses at some point. “Shaking like one, you are.”

Tommy huffs indignantly. “Wanker.”

The night passes in a daze. Sleep comes and goes, never deep, and never long… But thankfully without dreams right then. Alfie stays awake. A safe presence in the dark.

When the sun rises, Tommy blinks blearily in the light and rolls over onto his back, wary of his aching muscles. Alfie is gone, but he only has to wonder about his whereabouts for a moment, because soon he comes into the bedroom with a glass of water and a bucket.

“Go to the office,” Tommy mutters. “I can lie here and vomit on my own.”

“Now, you can’t seriously believe I’d do that,” Alfie says and sets the bucket down. “Won’t get rid of me that easy, love. If I’m not here holding your hair back when you vomit, what sort of man would I be?”  

It’s not up for discussion. And Alfie stays home.

He comes upstairs with breakfast, but Tommy refuses to touch anything but the tea, despite the whole meal only consisting of toast. The nausea has already begun stirring, and the mere thought of food makes his stomach churn. For once, Alfie doesn’t pester him. Just sits down next to him and starts reading the paper out loud. Without asking, he bodily manoeuvres Tommy so he can curl up against him, head resting in his lap again. Covers him with extra blankets when he begins to tremble. And is all around a better nurse than he’s got any fucking right to be.

Throughout the day, Tommy feels his condition deteriorate. Steadily and relentlessly. He knows it’ll get worse before it gets better, and it doesn’t take long before it’s pretty fucking bad. Perhaps he should despise having Alfie here to witness this pathetic display, but as he lies there, vomiting his guts out into the bucket on the floor and shaking with the force of it, he’s thankful to not be alone. Alfie smooths his hair away from his forehead and rubs his back.

The day passes slowly. And that familiar distress begins to sink its claws into his chest. It builds together with everything else.

When the sun sets, it’s grown into roaring anguish. And come midnight, he finds himself curled up in Alfie’s lap, clinging to him as the bottomless feeling of hopelessness threatens to drag him down… Drown him in its icy black waters.

This is the worst part. Not the aching muscles, or the nausea. This. Or perhaps it’s the combination of it all.

“It’ll pass, love,” Alfie whispers into his hair and rocks him slowly back and forth. “Know it doesn’t feel like it, but it will.”

He nods. Buries his face in Alfie’s shirt and inhales the familiar scent. Then the nausea rolls through the pit of his stomach and Alfie quickly places the bucket in front of him as he vomits again. There’s nothing left to throw up at this point, just bile and a bit of water that Alfie has coaxed him into drinking. The bile is red with blood.  

He begins to lose grip of his surroundings. They seem to blur, smudged by the pain.

It hurts too much to sit up, even cradled in Alfie’s arms. Alfie curls up together with him on the mattress instead. Holds him. Sometimes he’ll talk. Whisper little stories. Or just mutter nonsense about the weather, or something stupid Ollie said… Distraction. When Tommy is so out of it that tears begin seeping in quiet streams down his cheeks, Alfie sings to him, humming soft words in Hebrew.

Perhaps it’s a lullaby.

He falls into a restless sleep full of nightmares. Worse, much, much worse than the usual ones. It’s dark wet mud, ropes twisting around his limbs and voices shouting at him. He doesn’t understand what they want, only that he’s done something wrong- he can’t make it right again, doesn’t understand- But they keep screaming at him. It’s his own fault that he’s in so much pain, that much he can make out.

Only one voice is kind, but it’s so far away, drowned out by everything else and he can’t quite hear it… He wishes everyone else would just be quiet…

He drifts in and out of the nightmares. Can’t tell what’s real and what is not. The dark hole in his chest opens up wider, hands are tearing at it.

Then he’s on a mattress. In a bed. Alfie’s bed. That’s where he is. Not under ground. But the ache from the dream lingers, like a tight knot in the pit of his stomach.

He buries his face in a pillow, curling inwards on himself against the pain. Tries to breathe. Take it one second at a time. Wait until they string together into minutes. Hours. Wait for it to be over. He hears a mewling, whimpering sound, as from a wounded dog. Then he realises it’s him making the noise. But he can’t do anything about it. 

Something is crawling inside of him. Something escaped from that dark hole in his chest and now it’s twisting and wrenching in his guts… He claws at his stomach. Wants the thing stop moving- Wants to make a hole and tear it out…

“Tommy, pet, it’s alright.”

Someone grabs his hands. Tries to keep him from pulling whatever that _thing_ is out, and he whines in protest. It’s Alfie’s hands. He tries to tell him about it. But Alfie just hushes him.

“It’s okay, love. Nothing there. All in your mind, see. Just try to breathe.”

Then a hot water bottle is placed under his hands, pressed against his body. It soothes the pain a little. Alfie lies down behind him, a hand gently rubbing his stomach whenever Tommy convulses in the embrace. 

He is muttering something. Words Tommy can’t understand. But it’s comforting. He lets the words lull him into a brief slumber.

…

He wakes up again.

“You’ve got to try and drinks something.” Alfie puts a glass to his mouth and he presses his lips together. “Just a little bit, love…”

But he can’t drink. The thing in his stomach won’t allow it.

All he wants is a drag of bitter smoke… Something that will soothe the pain. It would make everything go away, make everything alright, make the voices stop… He begs and pleads with Alfie; he’s going to die. The thing will eat him up from the inside- It’s already gnawing its way up his chest and if he doesn’t give it what it wants he’ll-

Alfie holds him. Soothes and promises it’ll go away.

It doesn’t go away. Will never go away… His cheeks are wet with tears. But he can’t be bothered to care.

Then he can feel it ebb out.

Like a wave crashing against a shore and then pulling back. Or a storm passing. Slowly, slowly the tension melts from his muscles. The tight rope of fear around his chest loosens, allows him to breathe again, and his guts untwist themselves. He falls limply against the mattress, the sweaty sheets clinging to his back.

Alfie is singing again, soft and quiet, right next to his ear. Lulling him into safety. And though he can’t understand, he feels that the song is about something beautiful. In the midst of all the ugliness, that feels like a comfort.

He falls asleep.

When Tommy opens his eyes, the sunlight pricks them like needles. He keeps them open, still. After the darkness, it’s a welcomed change.

He shifts slightly, finding Alfie right behind him on the bed, eyes half closed. But now he opens them fully and smiles. A tired, but genuine smile.

“Back in the land of the living, then, love?”

Tommy nods, despite not feeling very alive at all right then. 

Alfie heaves a sigh in relief, using the next breath to mutter something in Hebrew.

“Got to thank the man upstairs, right?” he says when Tommy gives him a wondering look. “Didn’t think he still listened to me, but apparently he does. Or maybe he’s got a soft spot for you, for some indiscernible reason. Could be the eyes…” 

Alfie changes the sweat drenched sheets, runs him a hot bath. And the water washes away the sweat and tears and bile.

Alfie is there with soothing words and gentle hands. 

“Think you can keep yourself from drowning for a minute?”Tommy hums, can’t be bothered to glare at him, and leans against the edge of the tub. The heat slowly creeps back into his cold limbs. He hears Alfie’s steps disappear across the floor. The swishing of fabric, pillows being shaken. A window opening to let air into the room.

Soon, Tommy finds himself back in the bed, tucked in under clean sheets dressed in one of Alfie’s freshly washed shirts and eating tiny pieces of bread between mouthfuls of tea. 

Alfie changes into clean clothes too and sinks down onto the mattress with a sigh. And it feels like the calm after a storm.

“Feeling any better?”

Alfie runs a hand through Tommy’s hair, damp from the bath rather than sweat now. It’s a pleasant change. Tommy nods. His chest feels lighter. After a moment of silence, he braces himself to meet Alfie’s gaze.

“Thank you.”

Alfie cradles the back of his head and kisses his temple.

It’s not until another night falls and Tommy is drifting off into what promises to be a slightly more peaceful slumber that he remembers it.

“Where did you put the box,” he mutters, already more asleep than awake at this point.

“Dresser in the hallway,” Alfie yawns. “Top drawer, the one with the lock, for safekeeping. Key’s in the usual place.”

Tommy hums. Gives a half-hearted mutter that Alfie should’ve thrown it out.

“Think you should be the one to do that, love. When you’re ready,” is all Alfie says.

It’s mentioned just in passing. Somehow seems unimportant now.

They both forget about it.

And when Tommy a few weeks later tries to open the drawer in search of his watch and finds it locked, he can’t understand why Alfie would lock it. He searches out the key. And it’s not until he’s stood there staring down at the silvery box that he remembers.

He should throw it out.

Somewhere he feels that tiny thorn again. _One day… When he gets tired of you… You’ll need it again. For one reason or another_.

A way out.

It’s strange how fast the thoughts return. And so he doesn’t get rid of it. Instead he closes the drawer again.

But this time, the thoughts don’t linger.

Alfie calls on him from the kitchen, wants him to taste some soup which he definitely isn’t qualified to weigh in on anyway. And Tommy locks the drawer, puts the key back and goes to most likely shrug and say that Alfie’s the expert, before occupying himself with something more important than cooking. Such as sitting on the kitchen counter and watch Alfie cook. Listen to him go on about the usefulness of parsnips. Or muse about whether flies have homes, or if they just sort of buzz around with no actual purpose in mind.

In any case, Tommy will have forgotten all about the drawer and its content soon. 

...

Sometimes when he passes the dresser, he remembers it for a short moment.

If it’s a bad day, that thorn will make itself known again. _You’ll see… Only a matter of time_ …

But as time goes on, it becomes easier to ignore. Because surrounding that one thorn of doubt is everything else: Alfie telling him he loves him.

Alfie trying to keep him in bed in the morning, just so he can wrap him up in a tight hug.

Alfie muttering that he’s the luckiest bastard in the entire world, for seemingly no other reason than Tommy smiling at him…

Eventually, his chest is so full of all those warm and soft things that it hardly has room for anything else.

 

….

Tommy wakes up with a gasp, pitching forward off the bed and clutching at his throat as phantom fingers grasp around it. His breathing comes in frantic bursts. It takes a long moment before he remembers where he is –not in a cellar, not a tunnel, in his and Alfie’s bed. Safe.

Alfie is snoozing peacefully by his side, sprawled on his back and mouth hanging open. The duvet has slipped down a bit and Tommy carefully pulls it back up over his chest.

He needs air. Needs to get out of the room. He follows the urge, pulling on a pair of trousers under Alfie’s shirt and setting for the door. Just as he’s about to leave the room, he stops himself, remembering something. When he’s walking downstairs, there’s a note on the nightstand. So Alfie doesn’t have to wonder

It’s been a long time since he had that bad of a nightmare. Even longer since he felt the urge to wander the streets. He unlocks the drawer in the hallway.

He’s got a particular spot in mind, and soon, he’s stood over the black waters of the Thames, watching inky waves swirl across the surface. Calmer than when they last stood here, he and Alfie.

He opens the box, heart thudding in the back of his throat. Gives himself a moment to really consider it. Then he tips the content out into the dark water far below his feet. The box follows. It lands silently on the dark surface, tossing in the waves for just a moment, before it sinks.

Alfie is still asleep when he comes back into the bedroom. Tommy shakes him gently and he shifts a bit in his sleep before waking up.

“’ello there, love,” he yawns and props himself up on his elbows, giving Tommy a sleepy smile. “Up and about already?”

“I’m having a bad night.”  

Alfie would’ve understood anyway, but this is part of it. It feels important, saying it out loud. Alfie nods, sitting up fully and running a finger down his cheek in passing, before getting out of bed.

“Well I reckon I could use some tea. Always a good time for that, innit? Come on. And bring some of the blankets- always unreasonably fucking cold at this hour.”

A little while later, they’re on the sofa; Tommy swaddled in blankets and holding a cup of tea, Alfie with his feet propped on the table and an arm wrapped around him

“So, where were we then?” Alfie opens the book and adjusts the glasses to the bridge of his nose. The sight never fails to make Tommy smile.

“This wouldn’t be a problem if you folded the-“ He can’t even finish the sentence. As usual, Alfie looks so appalled at this suggestion that Tommy has to laugh. The audacity, to fold corners in books. But scribbling tiny notes in Hebrew in them is apparently fine…

“Page seventy I think,” he yawns, settling into the embrace and stating, “I’ll get you a bookmark.”

“That’s more like it,” Alfie grumbles, turning the pages until he finds the right one, brow furrowing for a moment. “Yeah, it’s here alright.”

He begins to read.

Tommy closes his eyes. And smiles a little to himself. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> wheew. this was a handful. I really hope you enjoyed it! There's been several rewrites... 
> 
> The second part is already written and will be up on Monday!


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